


Sugar Daddy (We're Goin' Down)

by jedusaur



Category: Bandom
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-14
Updated: 2011-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-22 15:11:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedusaur/pseuds/jedusaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a long, heavy silence. Pete caresses Patrick's nipple. Patrick's dad coughs.</p><p>There is a very slight chance that this may, possibly, have been a bad idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sugar Daddy (We're Goin' Down)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://gala-apples.livejournal.com/profile)[**gala_apples**](http://gala-apples.livejournal.com/)'s prompt at the [Pretend Dating Festival](http://pennyplainknits.livejournal.com/306125.html).
> 
> This fic has been podficced by leish [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/384468) and by reena_jenkins [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/677875).

The worst part of it is that Patrick is actually a complete goody-two-shoes. It would be one thing if he were actually doing any of the things his parents have accused him of doing. Having authority figures breathing down your neck is the price you pay for having fun and losing their trust. Patrick gets that. But he's not having any of the fun, and he's getting all of the mistrust, and it's not fucking fair.

It's not that he wouldn't go out and do stupid shit if he had the chance. Patrick would absolutely love to go to basement shows and smoke weed and learn to dirty dance. He'd totally get shitfaced and pee in fountains and all that jazz, given the opportunity. Better to do everything illegal before his eighteenth birthday brings with it a permanent record.

The thing is, most of that requires money and/or friends to do it with, and Patrick doesn't have a job. He has friends, but they're the kind of friends who come over to play video games and politely accept glasses of Kool-Aid from his mom. He doesn't have the kind of friends who are over twenty-one, or who know where to go to get weed, or get invited to underground concerts. He doesn't know anyone who regularly engages in anything that could be labeled partying.

And yet every time he comes home five minutes later than expected, his parents are searching his backpack for condoms and bongs. He's getting kind of sick of it. It makes him want to spend more time out of the house, which probably isn't helping his case, but he doesn't care. They're not going to trust him either way, so he might as well not bother trying to convince them.

During the school year, he gets a monthly fare pass for the El so his parents don't have to add time to their commutes to drive him to school. He spends a lot of time after school aimlessly riding around and listening to music. It's not so bad. There are a lot of interesting people on the subway, and sometimes he gets off the train and wanders around a park or downtown. Chicago might suck in a lot of ways, but it's his city and he loves it.

Then the school year ends, and there's no reason for him to be given a pass, so he's stuck in suburbia. It drives him completely up the wall.

His parents keep asking why he wants to go anywhere else, like they think he's having withdrawal symptoms from his favorite crackhouse or something. Patrick doesn't try to explain. He just puts on his headphones and paces--around the house, around the block, around his neighborhood. There is absolutely nothing interesting nearby. Just a grocery store, a couple fast-food places, and a gas station, none of which will hire him.

Patrick is in the gas station convenience store, staring wistfully into the beer coolers, when he meets Pete.

At first, he's pretty sure the guy is checking him out. Which would actually be awesome. Patrick hasn't taken his libido out for any real-world test drives yet, but he has some reason to believe that dudes are relevant to his interests. And even if that weren't the case, it would still be a nice ego boost.

Then the guy scoots closer to him and whispers, "Hey. Need someone legal to buy your booze?"

Because he's an idiot and a smooth one at that, Patrick says, "Why would you do that?"

The guy shrugs casually, then breaks out into a huge grin. "'Cause I just turned twenty-one and there is nothing more satisfying than sticking my driver's license in the faces of all these smartass cashier bastards that kept me sober and miserable my whole life. Whaddya want?"

"I don't really have any money," says Patrick apologetically. He really is bummed. This is kind of a golden opportunity right here.

The guy waves it off. "Whatever, I can buy you a drink."

"Seriously?"

"Sure. Wish someone had done it for me when I was... how old are you? What's your name?"

"Patrick," says Patrick, then adds glumly, "I'm sixteen."

The guy grins brightly at him. "Nice to meet you, Patrick. I'm Pete. C'mon, pick a six-pack. That asshole behind the counter once called the cops on me when I tried to get a fake ID past him. I wanna go say hi."

***

"Buddy Holly," says Patrick. "No question."

"But Elvis was the King!"

Patrick pops the top off another beer and gesticulates with the bottle. "Being the first or the most popular does not make someone the most influential." The beer is spilling onto the dashboard of Pete's car. Patrick pauses to take a sip so it won't be so full. "The history of pop music is the history of racial relations. There's nothing more important than integration, and the Crickets, like, _were_ integration."

They're sitting in the grocery store parking lot, and Patrick has had four beers, counting the one he's currently slurping down. Four is two-thirds of six, which means he is probably more drunk than Pete.

Pete props his foot up on the steering wheel. "You know a lot about this shit for a sixteen-year-old."

Patrick shrugs. "I listen to a lot of music. Not much else to do. My parents practically have me microchipped, I never get to do anything fun. This is the first time I've ever had more than a sip of anything alcoholic."

"Goddamn," says Pete sympathetically.

"I kind of want to take a picture of this and show them," says Patrick. "Be all, 'hey, if you want me to be out misbehaving while you're not looking, fine! Meet my new sugar daddy!'"

Pete cracks up. "Sugar daddy, fuck, I'm not that old!"

"You kind of are," points out Patrick. "You said you just turned twenty-one, that's five years older than me. That's about a third of my life." He is brilliant at drunken math. Brilliant.

"Shit," says Pete. "I guess it is. Well, I'm always up for pissing off parents, if you want to snap a photo of us rolling around in the empties."

"No camera." Patrick drains his fourth bottle of beer. "I could just take you home instead. That would be the most hilariously awkward family dinner of all time."

He's still trying to get the last drops out of the bottom of the bottle when he feels the car start vibrating. "Whoa, dude, should you be driving right now?"

"I had two beers an hour and a half ago," says Pete. "I'm fine. Where do you live?"

***

There is a long, heavy silence. Pete caresses Patrick's nipple. Patrick's dad coughs.

There is a very slight chance that this may, possibly, have been a bad idea.

"Are you... in college?" asks Patrick's mom tentatively.

Pete nuzzles Patrick's neck. "Kinda," he tells Patrick's collarbone. "I take a few credits when I feel like it, but mostly my energy goes into my band."

Another long silence, then: "Do you have a job?"

"Nope. I live with my parents."

"We have so much in common," Patrick says sweetly, sliding an arm around Pete's shoulders. He can see the dark silhouettes of consequences slowly closing in on him through the haze of alcohol, but now that he's made it this far, there's no way he can resist pawing Pete while he has the chance. He has nice shoulders for pawing.

Patrick's dad clears his throat. "I think you should go," he says to Pete. "We need to have a conversation with Patrick."

"Aw," says Pete. "Okay. It was nice to meet you folks. You should come to one of my shows sometime, I can get you on the guestlist. You might not want to wear those shoes, though, the floors tend to be a little sticky."

He turns away from Patrick's mom's raised eyebrows and before Patrick knows what's happening, they're kissing. He's getting his very first kiss as a joke in front of his parents. Fuck. At least it's a good one, he thinks. It's brief, but there is definitely tongue involved, and Pete's lips are warm and soft.

Pete pulls back. "You have my number, babe," he says, grabbing Patrick's ass. He waves to Patrick's parents and lets himself out the front door.

Patrick cringes.

***

He gets grounded for a month, his parents try to send him to therapy, and worst of all, he _doesn't_ have Pete's number.

At least, that's what he thinks until he's going through the pockets of all his dirty pants a week later. He learned his lesson about that the time he accidentally sent a five-dollar bill through the wash. That's, like, a hundred dollars at the turn of the twentieth century, or at the turn of the twenty-first century if you're Patrick and have no job. Since then, he checks his pockets before he does laundry.

He pulls out the scrap of folded paper and examines it. It appears to be half a label torn off one of the beer bottles he and Pete drank together. Then he unfolds it and sees the numbers on the back. When Pete squeezed his ass, he must have stuck this in his back pocket.

Which means he must have written it down before they got to Patrick's house. Which means he must have decided before then that he wanted Patrick to call him.

Patrick dashes upstairs, leaving his basket of dirty laundry next to the washing machine, and holes up in his bedroom. He knows he's supposed to waver over the phone for five minutes deciding whether or not to call, that's how crushes always work in movies and books, but fuck that shit. Pete said he could get Patrick on _guestlists_ for _shows_. His fingers can't dial fast enough.

"Super Zipper Zebra Company, how may I perplex you?" says a cheerful voice, followed immediately by a woman hollering, "PETE! I told you to knock that off!"

Patrick can't stop grinning, because apparently it is possible to have annoying parents and simultaneously be awesome, and that is really all he needs reassurance of at this point in his life. "Hey, sugar daddy," he says. "It's Patrick."

"Oh, thanks for the clarification. I have so many sugar, uh, recipients that it's hard to keep track of... fuck, what do you even call the younger person in a sugar parent relationship? This is gonna bug me now."

"Sugar boy?" suggests Patrick. "Sugar baby?"

"Ew, now you're making me feel legitimately pervy," complains Pete. "Stop it."

Patrick laughs. Maybe he's doing this crush thing wrong, because he isn't feeling awkward or nervous at all. Pete makes him feel more comfortable than he's ever been with anyone, actually. It's not like the crushes in the stories at all. Frankly, Patrick likes his way better.

"Sorry it took so long to call," says Patrick. "I didn't find the note until just now."

"It's cool, I would've come back and pounded on your door in another couple days anyhow."

Patrick's stomach tingles pleasantly at that.

"Hey," says Pete, "I've got a gig on Saturday. You should come, they won't give a shit how old you are. It'll be awful, our sound setup sucks. You'll have a blast."

"I seriously would love to, but I can't," says Patrick sadly. "I'm grounded, my parents were pissed as hell about the whole sugar daddy thing."

"Fuck 'em, sneak out."

Patrick thinks about it. He could, actually. It's not like he can get in much more trouble than he's already in, and they don't exactly keep him on lockdown. It wouldn't be hard. "Where is it? What time?"

"I forget where. We'll probably start whenever Gutierrez decides to show up. I'll pick you up at that gas station around, like, I dunno, evening?"

"Yeah, okay," says Patrick.

***

The show is, as promised, awful. Pete can't sing for shit, the bassist looks like he's on some kind of mind-altering substance that prevents him from focusing on a single bass line for more than a minute straight, and there is no sound tech. The house lights are too bright, and stay on the whole time. The bartender laughs in Patrick's face. He loses count of the number of people who step on his toes.

He has the time of his fucking life.

After the band is done, Pete sits on the edge of the stage like he's expecting his fans to clamor for autographs, a giant grin on his face. Patrick makes his way over. "Patrick!" Pete hollers when he sees him. "Afterparty at Timothy's place, he's got Twister and Joe's bringing weed!"

Approximately fifteen people pile into Pete's car, and then pile out in front of a shitty-looking apartment complex ten minutes later. Patrick recognizes some of them from the stage, including the guy who leads them upstairs and unlocks one of the apartments. It's barely big enough to fit them all, even without taking into account the drum kit in the corner of the living room. Some people begin to solve this problem by sitting on each other.

Someone puts on a Nirvana album. Someone else starts handing out beers. Patrick doesn't take one, because he heard something about weed and he doesn't think it's a good idea to try that for the first time while drunk. He notices that Pete doesn't take one either, which is a relief, since he's Patrick's ride.

The game of Twister that breaks out is like no Twister Patrick ever played as a kid. The number of players fluctuates as people join in and drop out, but it never seems to drop below seven. The spinner lies forgotten on the arm of a couch as random people holler things like "Right shoulder red!" and "Left bellybutton yellow!" and "Right knee purple! I don't know, find someone wearing something purple and kneel on them!"

Patrick watches from a distance, amused. When a curly-haired guy starts passing around little wrinkled paper cylinders, he carefully watches other people with them, then accepts one and gives it a shot. He's expecting to cough his lungs out and make an idiot of himself, but it actually goes just fine. Most of the people who are coughing their lungs out seem to be the ones who don't stop talking while they take a hit. Patrick may be new to this, but he's not actually stupid.

It doesn't seem to do much, apart from making the room seem a little more focused. Patrick backs into a corner and watches the room, still a little stunned that he's actually at a party like this and no one is making fun of him or kicking him out. When the Nirvana album ends, Pete picks up a bass guitar that Patrick's pretty sure wasn't there when they arrived and starts playing Seven Nation Army. Patrick, feeling a little daring, slips behind the drum set and lays down a beat. They loop the drum and bass parts for at least twice the length of the song before Pete fucks up and starts laughing, and somebody puts something else on the stereo.

Pete takes off the guitar strap and knee-walks over to Patrick. "How are you so awesome?" he asks, and puts his head in Patrick's lap. Patrick hasn't seen him drinking or smoking at all, but maybe he doesn't need to, maybe this is just Pete. Patrick hopes so. He runs his fingers through Pete's hair, and Pete presses his cheek against Patrick's knee.

It's three AM by the time people start filtering out. When there's only a few left, Pete says, "Should I take you home, or do you want to crash at my place?"

Patrick should go home. The longer he's gone, the higher the probability of his parents realizing he's gone, and it'll be a lot easier to sneak in unnoticed in the middle of the night than in the morning when they're awake. He suspects Pete is not an early riser. It would be better, more logical, to go home.

"Do you mind?" asks Patrick, and Pete shakes his head and smiles, and logic can go fuck itself.

***

Patrick wakes up in an unfamiliar bed with an unfamiliar, intensely hideous taste in his mouth. It's almost noon, according to the digital clock on the nightstand, which means that he's in deep shit.

He's going to be in deep shit whether or not he starts freaking out, so he doesn't. He gets up and pokes his nose out into the hallway, which greets him with the scent of coffee. He investigates the kitchen at the end of the hall. Pete is inflicting some serious damage to a stack of pancakes at the dining table, and there's an older man at the stove flipping more.

Patrick hovers in the doorway until Pete looks up and says, "Morning! Dad, this is Patrick. Want some breakfast?"

"Hi, Pete's dad," says Patrick awkwardly. The man shoots him a mildly disapproving glance. Patrick would have tried a Mr., except he doesn't actually know Pete's last name. "Um, can I use your bathroom?"

Pete points back the way Patrick came. As he's walking away, Patrick hears Pete's dad say, "Isn't he a little young?"

He finds some toothpaste in the medicine cabinet and swishes the worst of the taste out of his mouth. He doesn't want to think about the comment, about whether it means Pete brings home a lot of one-night stands and introduces them to his dad over pancakes. It makes him feel as young and naive as he is to imagine the sort of person Pete would hook up with: someone with real music cred, with piercings and tattoos, with a patched army jacket and an arsenal of blowjob tricks.

Patrick pictures someone like that chewing pancakes under the judgmental eye of Pete's dad. He grins to himself and feels just a little bit better.

He turns down the offer of breakfast, wanting to get back in case his mom has called the police or something. The drive home is less than a mile. Pete spends the whole time chattering away about how much fun he had last night. Patrick spends it stealing sidelong glances at him and trying to remember what the kiss was like. He can't quite bring the feeling to mind.

The second the car pulls up in front of the house, Patrick's mom is charging out the door like an enraged rhinoceros. Patrick braces himself. The driver's side window is open, and he can hear her ranting before she gets close enough to make out the words. "...know what had happened to you, we were scared out of our minds, where on earth did you go? And you, you kidnapping child molester, I'm going to report you to the authorities! Patrick, get out of that car right now!"

Patrick unbuckles his seat belt and reaches for the door handle, but before he gets there, Pete is saying, "Hey now, watch it with the accusations. Nobody's getting kidnapped or molested here. Patrick's old enough to choose to take a ride if he wants to, and he can choose to get in my car too." He rolls the window up against her splutters and says to Patrick, "Dude, if you don't want to deal with this, you can come back to mine."

Patrick opens the door. "Thanks, but I shouldn't. I'll call you later?"

"Yeah. Do that." Pete casts a wary glance at Patrick's mom, who's storming around the car and dragging Patrick out by the arm. Patrick waves miserably and follows her inside.

He stoically puts up with the first fifteen minutes or so of yelling. Sneaking out (or rather getting caught) was his bad, and he can take the heat for it. It's harder to take it when they start in on Pete and his alleged pedophiliac perversion, but that's essentially his fault too, and in any case he knows better than to rile them up enough to actually take it to the police. It's not until his dad starts in on how he knew this was happening all along that Patrick breaks.

"It wasn't happening all along," he snaps. "It wouldn't have happened like this in the first place if you'd ever trusted me when I said that!"

"Oh, so it's our fault?" demands his mother. "We shouldn't be trying to protect you from predators and addiction? Don't lie to me, I can smell the smoke on your clothes. I went to college, I'm not dumb!"

"Then you're a fucking awesome method actor," says Patrick, and boy does _that_ go over well.

***

Pete opens the door, takes one look at Patrick, and hugs him tight. It's not necessary, because Patrick doesn't need comforting--he's just fucking pissed, not, like, upset--but it's nice. Really nice, actually, and Patrick maybe clings a little.

"C'mon," says Pete, and leads him upstairs to his bedroom. Patrick doesn't remember seeing it last night. Pete must have put him straight to bed in the guest room. It's surprisingly teenage, full of band posters and crumpled old issues of Rolling Stone tucked under piles of clothes on the floor. Pete sits cross-legged on his pillow. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Patrick sits down too, hiking up one knee onto the bed to face Pete. "They're really pissed. Probably even more now that I'm gone again, but I wasn't gonna stay there and be screamed at all day. I hope Mom doesn't follow through on that threat to report you for statutory rape. That would be a pain."

"Why? Sixteen's legal, right?"

Patrick shakes his head. "Nope. Seventeen in Illinois."

"Huh," says Pete. "That kind of sucks for you, being jailbait. Must be hard to get laid."

Patrick snorts. "Impossible, apparently."

"What?" says Pete. "You've never had sex? Like, at all?"

"Not one tiny little bit." Patrick stares very hard at a Green Day poster on the opposite wall.

There's a pause while Pete wraps his brain around the evidently surprising fact of Patrick's virginity, then he says, "Wait. Okay, but you've kissed people, right?"

Patrick can feel his face getting hot. "Just the one," he admits.

"Shit," says Pete. "I'm sorry. I mean, it's not as big a deal as sex, but your first kiss should be at least, you know, voluntary."

"It's okay. Believe me, I did _not_ mind," says Patrick, then belatedly realizes that may have been a little bit too emphatic.

But Pete is saying, "Yeah?" and the way he's looking at Patrick isn't weirded out at all, more interested, so Patrick swallows and says, "I wouldn't mind doing it again, either. If you wanted to."

"I'm glad you said that," says Pete seriously, "because it would have been kind of creepy of me to explain to you that we're soulmates."

He leans forward and kisses Patrick, quick and light, again and again and then deeper, gently pushing him back until he's lying down with Pete half on top of him. Patrick tries to process the soulmates comment for a minute. Pete doesn't have to believe things to mean them, he decides, and focuses his attention on kissing back.

Kissing is more fun when his parents aren't in the room. It's also more fun lying down, with Pete's warm body pressed against him. Patrick slides an experimental hand under the hem of Pete's shirt, tickle-stroking the skin underneath, and Pete actually moans. "Fuck," he whispers against Patrick's lips. "I don't want to pressure you, okay, you don't have to--"

Patrick is under enough pressure from his own eager body that adding a little from Pete won't make a difference. He's already like a fucking champagne bottle, ready to spew. He squirms sideways until their bodies are lined up enough to press his erection against Pete's through layers and layers of cloth.

Pete hisses and lifts up his head, looking down at Patrick with dark eyes. "What do you want?" he asks, stroking Patrick's hair away from his face. He tilts his face down to kiss Patrick's neck, his tongue cruel and wonderful against sensitive skin. "Can I blow you?"

Patrick suspects he would very much enjoy that, but he doesn't have time to express this before he's coming in his pants.

***

"You folks don't like me," says Pete. "I get that. It's cool, you don't have to. But Patrick does, and I think the one thing we can all agree on here is that Patrick is awesome and deserves to be happy."

Patrick's mom looks like she might want to disagree with that, but Pete doesn't let her talk.

"You can keep trying to control him if you want, but that's not going all that well so far from what I can tell, so let me just say this: I am not letting anything bad happen to this guy. I don't drink and drive, I've never been arrested, I always use condoms, and Patrick and I are both way too smart to do any hard drugs. Like I said, you don't have to like me, but it would be nice if you could accept that you're not the only ones who care."

Patrick doesn't think any of this is really getting through to his parents. He can see a lot more arguments and power struggles coming up in the near future. But the simple fact that Pete is trying means a lot.

He squeezes Pete's hand. Pete squeezes back. Patrick is pretty sure he's gonna be okay.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Sugar Daddy (We're Going Down)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/384468) by [growlery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery)
  * [[podfic] Sugar Daddy (We're Goin' Down)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/677875) by [reena_jenkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reena_jenkins/pseuds/reena_jenkins)




End file.
